


Discs

by StaticPhobia



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, Dream Smp, Mild Gore, Sad Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:27:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28632483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StaticPhobia/pseuds/StaticPhobia
Summary: In the end, it was Tommy and his discs.Just like it’d always been.After everything, all the fighting and all the death, it’s him and the collectibles he spent years fighting for. He won. He got the discs.The sacrifice wasn’t worth it.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17





	Discs

**Author's Note:**

> this is a take on what would’ve happened if just about everyone died on January seventh.
> 
> reminder that these are all the characters from the SMP, not the ccs!

The war was finally over.

Skies black with ash from raging fires that finally started to calm down, canons knocked from high grounds and left as rubble in craters of the land, a few remaining withers left wandering aimlessly away, the war was finally over.

He held the discs, Cat and Blocks- surely no longer playable after the hell they’d gone through- in his bloodied, trembling hands. 

A grin split ear to ear on his face, and happiness bubbled in his chest. The war was over. He won.

Overjoyed, he held the collectibles tight in his arms and collapsed into a fit of laughter, landing on his back and staining his shirt black with soot. After all this time, all these conflicts and all this trauma, the war was over. Just like that.

“Tubbo!” The name left his tongue instinctively as he climbed to his feet despite how terribly his body ached, spinning around in a search for green, “Tubbo! We’ve won, we did it!”

He didn’t see green, though. Only black like the smoke that made blue disappear, gray from the stone once underneath beautiful grass and gorgeous flowers but now exposed as an eyesore, and red, the color of the substance that coated the remains of what couldn’t be rebuilt, spread and smeared in small sections.

“T-Tubbo?”

No one answered.

The battlefield was empty. Everyone was dead.

Surely not, though. There’s no way they were all dead, right? All three lives, taken in doomsday?

It sure seemed like it, he thought as he gazed at the destruction, no longer feeling quite as victorious as he was before.

He began searching wherever he saw red.

Disgusting, sickly red that made his eyes water and his nose sting. He became numb to the scent after a while, stumbling over splintered boards and crushed stone to get to where he wanted to go.

He found Tubbo with the bees. Buried underneath broken hives and upturned dirt from explosives. Terrible burns and bruises all over his pale skin that only rotted and made Tommy nauseous the longer he looked at them.

He took the red bandana from around Tubbo’s neck and tied it around his wrist before moving on in a sudden state of apathy.

Tommy found more bodies the longer he looked, most residing in the remains of his country.

The more bodies he found, the deeper the pit in his stomach dropped. Down until he physically lost the ability to walk, coming to a stop at the tree that still remained, even after everything.

He collapsed against it and held the red and green discs in his hands.

Was it worth it?

No, it wasn’t. Tommy knew this now, a doomsday too late to the realization that the discs meant nothing.

The discs meant nothing.

They weren’t worth more than the lives of his friends or even his enemies, it wasn’t a fair trade. Lives meant more than playable music records that used to have meaning.

Why did he do this?

He’d been so desperate for the discs.. why? They were nothing more than discs. He could see that now, after finding and burying everyone he ever knew, placing the few flowers he could find on top of their graves.

The discs were nothing.

A jukebox sat beside the tree, almost as if it were taunting him.

Reaching up, he slipped the record into the jukebox and waited.

The notes of the music Cat came out distorted and utterly wrong, making Tommy flinch and stare at it with widened eyes. It quickly got stuck on a single note, looping painfully a few times before the music box itself malfunctioned and started smoking. Tommy reached in and pulled the now broken disc out before anything could light on fire.

Cat was broken, bent disturbingly with pieces of it starting to flake off. He could see his own reflection in it, hundreds of him in tiny little fractals, each reminding him of a funhouse mirror gone terribly wrong.

He began to feel sick to his stomach, looking from the jukebox to the other disc that remained damaged but not demolished. 

Why did it matter that it was still somewhat intact? The disc was worthless anyways.

In a moment of anger, he gripped the edges of the discs and threw them as far as he could. Which.. wasn’t all that far, due to his weak stature. They now sat a few yards ahead, mocking him and how pathetic he was.

Scowling, he pulled his knees to his chest and buried his face in them, teeth grit hard enough to break, and listened as fire crackled and any remaining buildings collapsed from the pressure of gravity.

“Oh, hi Tommy!”

The raspy, cheerful voice made his head shoot up and look in its direction. He saw ill gray skin covered by a faded yellow sweater with a gaping hole in the center, the surrounding fabric stained red, and he could look straight through the wound and see what was behind him. Ghostbur was floating in front of him, and he would be blocking his view of the discs if he weren’t entirely transparent.

Ghostbur.

He wasn’t alone.

Knees still tucked to his chest, he offered a forced smile and a wave, “Ghostbur, hey! My friend, how are you? Doing good, doing good?”

Ghostbur physically winced at the sound of Tommy’s voice, but his lips curled up and he nodded nonetheless, “yeah, really good, actually! My symphony is finally finished! You sound awful by the way, Tommy.”

“I sound- wait, what?” Tommy was slow to process what Ghostbur said, his ears beginning to irritatingly ring. “Your symphony?”

“Yeah, look!” Smiling wide, Ghostbur turned and gestured to the crater, the stone that stretched near bedrock. A wasteland, now. It reminded Tommy of the type of scenery you’d find in a movie about a zombie apocalypse. A group of survivors, making their way through the end of the world together.

Tommy was alone, though. Even with Ghostbur.

He planted a hand on the ground and tried to stand, but the effort was pointless. Ghostbur looked back at him skeptically, and clasped his hands together. “Thank you for completing my symphony, Tommy!”

He floated towards Tommy and materialized a blue crystal, pushing it into Tommy’s hand and closing the boy’s fingers around it, “have some blue, calm yourself. It’s okay- ohh, Tommy- don’t cry, Tommy.” As soon as the cold stone touched his palm, Tommy realized that salty tears were making their way down his cheeks.

“I’m sorry I have to leave, Tommy, but my symphony is finished. I can’t stay.”

And even Ghostbur was leaving him.

“.. can you at least sing the song, Wilbur? One last time?” His voice felt weak as he looked up in despair, loosening his hold on the gift.

But the ghost was already waving, becoming less visible by the second.

“Bye, Tommy!”

“W-wait, Wilbur!” His hand shot out towards him, dropping the blue, his fingers pale and bony, “don’t go yet!”

At that point, it was too late, and he fell where a ghost no longer floated, his fingers now grazing the worthless discs he meant to rid of.

The discs.

After everything, he was alone with nothing more than the two reminders of his biggest mistake.

Face down in dead grass, he weakly lifted his head, arm still stretched out and just barely touching the records. It was a familiar sight, to be honest. His own arm, reaching for his discs. How long had he been doing that for, now, anyways? Months, years? Wars worth of miserable attempts to obtain objects that turned out to be nothing. Wars that left a dissatisfied taste on his tongue, sour, bitter and overall unpleasant.

Clawing the ground and pulling himself forward, he managed to clench both discs in a shaking grip and push himself to his knees. Blankly, he stared down at them. It was hard to keep his eyes open when he felt such disgust towards the objects, falling into a mental spiral of intense guilt and regret. Rage slowly bubbled in his chest and found its way out on the form of tears from his eyes.

What this what it was all for? All the sacrifices he made, leading up to this truly pathetic moment?

He snapped the discs in half, grim, and tossed them down into the remains of his country, listening as they fell down, down, out of sight.

He never heard them hit the bottom of the wreckage, but it didn’t matter.

The melody was already over, anyways.


End file.
